Smells like Home
by GrlCalledLauren
Summary: Memories are 80% percent smell after all...


A/N Hey Guys, so this is actually my creative writing homework, and my character Zeppelin, is similar to Quinn so a couple of modifications and viola! We have a story. Reiveiws are appreicated; but you can't review without reading so enjoy

~Playmaker

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Quinn stands palms out, in the proper anatomical position facing the ocean, the wind and the mist of salt water spraying at her with the occasional ebb of the tide. She closes her eyes as the sun rays make reflective patterns off the refractive sheen of her glasses and takes in the warmth of the UV, something that's so different from home this time of year.

She likes California, Everything about it.

She loves the idyllic palm trees stretching for miles and miles like an infinity in its entirety, never seeming to end , and the beaches stretching out with sand for miles. She loves the pleasant sun…although that's possible because of her Pineal gland's melatonin reacting to the constant rays of UV and duration of light. She loves the glamour of Hollywood, and the interesting behavior patterns of the inhabitants…

A distant cry of a gulf in it's usual migration pattern, snaps Quinn out of her cognative reservoir; She blinks letting her eyes adjust to the present and eases herself into a sitting position in the lofty sand. Quinn, like the gull will embark on her own migration, only unlike most sensible creatures of wing Quinn won't be traveling towards the heat of the equator. At the end of the week, Quinn will be going home.

Home is a different sensation of hormonal and neural responses for Quinn altogether. She can almost picture herself now, her feet instead sinking into the swallowing sand, would be almost knee deep in the icy phalanges of snow. The outline of the horizon, blurred by the bleak flurries of gray and white.

The gentle sea breeze that occasionally brushes back her hair, delicately separating the strands, would be a forceful gust of arctic rushes, like grabbing appendages, slothfully taking whatever they could in a consumption of their own greed. The comparison of the two climates always fascinated Quinn…

She could turn and see instead of the brick outline of the looming academy, her own middle class adobe, lights strung up and blinking frantically, in the fading darkness with a morose code of their own. She could smell the scent of pine and ash, a combination of olfactory stimulation, she herself found to be one of her favorites. The puffs of smoke would emulate from the chimney and Einstein would be pawing mercifully at the windows in attempt to try and frolic in the heaps of white condensation. Snow.

Her parents would be inside, her Mom and Dad laughing and singing over eggnog and her mom making her organic ginger bread men, with gluten free whey soy, and buttermilk frosting…which in turn would eventually burn to black crisps, and Quinn herself would have to remind her mother to use the automatic timing module, a Quinnvention , that was supposed to try and salvage any hope of edible meals. There would be a typical Christmas movie glowing from the big screen, the kind that fortune 500 companies use to emulate empathic responses from veiwers. And the tree, an outlandish pine, over weighed with ornaments by the hundreds, a mixture of homemade crafts from grade school, and k-mart specials, would be packed like small fish with volatile odors. Sardines.

Quinn could turn again from the house, and see the swing set she'd received on her 2nd Christmas, the ancient structure of stripped blue and white aluminum still standing, with the neon teal plastic swings dangling from lightly aging chains, moved swiftly by the wind. A time holder as if a smaller Quinn were still there swinging. The tree fort stood erect beside the swings, the sign proudly reading 'None of the Male Persuasion, except Dad…and PaPop' written in messy child's scrawl. Quinn could remember 55.723% of her summer nights spent with sleeping bags and telescopes sleeping up the wooden fortification. Distant squeals of the Brayer family kids, four little girls and two little boys running around in their marshmallow coats, the offensive padding simulating blubber to keep the children's body temperature regulated in the chilliest of winds. They would be laughing and dancing around their annual family snowman, hoping the impossible. That maybe, just maybe some sort of entity will grant the globs of ice crystals enough energy to sustain a temporary life span. Quinn had wonder she'd ever been that naive.

The Aldersin's, an elderly couple on Quinn's other side, would have the small cottage darkened. As night fell and the years passed the couple required more hours of rest to regulate proper homeostasis, and revamp the endorphins the two always seemed to beam; with smiles and –the best part to Quinn, edible and yes, non burnt, chocolate chip cookies.

Quinn smiled wider lost in nostalgia and hallucinations of home. "Quinn" Her name fades in the wind as the memories fade; and Quinn is back, a fish out of water, on the beaches of Sunny California. "Quinn.." Zoey calls moving closer to tap her friend on the shoulder. Quinn's bespectacled gaze meets that of Zoey's earthy one, brown eyes smoky with clouds of black eye liner, thin face framed by straight beach blonde brown hair. "Hey, come on; you're missing taquito Tuesday." She says, almost breathless; but Quinn couldn't tell if the wind stole the girl's exchange of Carbon or mere exertion from running did. "What are you doing?" Zoey asks, a thin blonde eyebrow, stranded in a sea of summer tanned skin, raised. "The interesting aroma of pine and ash was in the air, perhaps there's deforestation by nature occurring somewhere." Quinn proffered the expliantion, shaking herself completely of her earlier reminiscing… "Oh," Zoey says slowly, "Yeah" And begins to walk to the Caf. Quinn stalls, taking a last look at the horizon and a sniff of the air; memories are over 80% smell after all.

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A/N: So tell me what y'a;; think 'kay?


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